


An Ordinary Day in Midgar, with Divers Sartorial Diversions, as Witnessed by Colonel G. Rhapsodos

by eliddell



Series: Blood of Heaven and Earth 'verse [2]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Fanclubs, Gen, Shopping, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-09 05:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20509001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliddell/pseuds/eliddell
Summary: An ex-Turk and two SOLDIERswalk into a bargo clothes shopping.





	An Ordinary Day in Midgar, with Divers Sartorial Diversions, as Witnessed by Colonel G. Rhapsodos

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I wrote this, but then I often don't. Takes place a few weeks to a month after _Blood of Heaven and Earth_, between mid-November and mid-December of εγλ 0002.
> 
> **Disclaimer**: Final Fantasy VII belongs to Square-Enix or whatever they're calling themselves these days, not to me. The specific text of this fanfic falls under the CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 license to the extent that this does not infringe on Square's rights.

Vincent Valentine was not a man who normally darkened my doorstep. Oh, I don't mean that I objected to his presence, given that he was one of the few people in SOLDIER who would speak to me civilly outside a work context, but like his lover, he wasn't terribly social, and we seldom had any opportunity to encounter each other. With several of the mako reactors being shut down and others having their output capped, the number of out-of-place monster sightings had lessened, but there were still enough to keep all four of our Firsts busy, and I was the one who kept getting all the missions to Icicle Inn or little islands at the far end of nowhere. I knew I deserved it, but if I never again saw one of those _dreadful_ shabby little fishing villages, it would be too soon. 

I often thought that I would have preferred to have died in Wutai during the war, before I could have done all the horrible, foolish things that had led to me being where I was now. I had killed my men. I had, indirectly, killed _Angeal_. And all for naught. 

_Pride is lost._ Indeed. I had no right to pride, only penance. I didn't deserve death, or peace, although at one point, I had selfishly sought both. 

However, I was speaking of Vincent, and how he came to my office one grey day in early December. I had just returned from a mission late the evening before, and was struggling with a stack of paperwork that seemed to grow and multiply even as I worked my way through it. When I saw him, surprise caused my pen to trace an errant line across some form that dealt with requisitions of training equipment for the Thirds. I had left the door to my inner office open, but I had _not_ expected to look up and suddenly see an ex-Turk filling that doorway. Even Sephiroth wasn't that quiet. It was positively _inhuman_ . . . but then, this man was Chaos' host. 

I flipped the form so that it was face-down on the desk, although I didn't doubt he had already noticed my little faux-pas. "And what brings our newest First Class to see me?" My voice was somewhat edged, I admit. I have never liked being surprised. 

"I need your help," Vincent said in those low, gravelly tones of his. It wasn't a reply I'd anticipated. In fact, I couldn't imagine what he would need my help _with_. Sephiroth would move mountains to assist this man, and Angeal's Puppy would do the same if he thought it would please his General. _And_ all the Turks still treated him as one of their own. With that formidable mountain of expertise behind him, I couldn't see what he would want with one disgraced Genesis Rhapsodos. 

And so I raised an eyebrow and said, "_My_ help?" with careful emphasis. 

"I want you to come shopping with me tomorrow." 

"_What?_" 

Vincent's eyes narrowed. "If the idea disturbs you that much, I can ask my second choice instead." 

"Oh, no, no, never think of it." I waved a hand airily. "I was merely surprised—after all, we hardly know each other. Or does this have to do with Sephiroth?" The silver-haired man was the only link between us that I could think of. 

"In a sense." He waited a half-beat for that to sink in before continuing. "My problem is that nearly my entire wardrobe at the moment consists of SOLDIER uniforms. There are circumstances under which it would be best for me not to be so obviously affiliated with Shinra . . . but I've been out of circulation for a quarter of a century, so my inclination is to dress too conservatively for my apparent age. That would make me stand out almost as badly, in some quarters." 

"You wish to use me as a sartorial consultant?" 

"Precisely." His expression didn't flicker at the word _sartorial_, but whether that was because he'd encountered it before, or it was just the Turk in him, I couldn't tell. 

"I can understand why you wouldn't want to ask Sephiroth or the Puppy for help, but why not one of your Turks?" 

"Two reasons. First, very few of them are qualified—what Reno and Rude wear off-duty is actively disturbing, and Tseng is in Junon for the next few days." 

"Why not Veld?" 

A flicker of expression broke through the Turk mask. "Because I was the best man at his wedding." 

"And?" I prompted. 

"Veld was married in a white polyester leisure suit. With blue rhinestone details." 

I swooned back in my chair, and it wasn't entirely theatrics. _White polyester_, forsooth! How horrifying! "Please," I said haltingly, "_please_ tell me that it didn't take place at a disco." 

"Fortunately, the one where he and his wife met had closed by then." 

If we had been talking about anyone but the Head Turk, it would have made excellent blackmail material, I reflected as I straightened up. However, one did not blackmail Turks if one had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. 

"What was your other reason for asking me in particular?" I asked. 

"It makes it easier to bring Sephiroth along." 

I blinked. "I have _never_ succeeded in taking Sephiroth shopping for anything except weapons or materia. Or camping gear, on one memorable occasion that resulted in us being thrown out of the store." 

"Which is why I'll consider it a win if we get him to try on so much as one shirt." 

"Hmmm." I would grant Vincent this: he knew Sephiroth well, despite the short time they had been acquainted. "_My friend, your desire / Is the bringer of life, the gift of the Goddess._" 

"Which, I take it, means that you'll come." 

"Indeed. Who were you going to ask if I refused?" I asked curiously. 

"Cissnei." 

"Interesting." And not a bad choice. In addition to looking good in a suit, Cissnei knew quite a bit about men's fashion. Not nearly as much as I did, of course, but more than the average. "When do you want me to meet you?" 

It could have been canceled at a moment's notice. Missions seldom gave one more than a few hours' warning, but for whatever reason there were none that night or the next morning, and I met Vincent and Sephiroth in the hall outside the latter's office at eleven hundred hours precisely. Vincent had even managed to scrounge up something that looked at first glance like civilian clothing, exchanging his uniform shirt for a starched white one that was no doubt intended to go under a Turk suit. The grey jacket he was wearing overtop had to be borrowed, since it didn't quite fit right, but at least it was unobtrusive. Sephiroth was dressed the same way as he always was, and looked as though he wasn't quite certain how Vincent had convinced him to come along. 

Neither of them was visibly armed, but Sephiroth could call Masamune to his hand from anywhere in the world just as I could do with Rapier, and Vincent doubtless had a dozen hidden weapons on his person, just like any other Turk. Thus, none of us needed to carry a weapon openly. 

My own attire was betwixt and between, so to speak. I wore my coat, since it was far too cold to go without it, but underneath, I'd put on a poet's shirt that I thought suited me exquisitely. And I had left the ridiculous belt that went with the standard uniform under my bed where it belonged, horrid thing. Surely there was something more _flexible_ that could provide protection for one's viscera! 

"Shall we, gentlemen?" I said, gesturing back toward the elevator. 

"I still don't understand why _I_ am needed on this expedition," Sephiroth took the opportunity to say. 

"The thought of seeing your boyfriend play dress-up doesn't appeal to you?" I admit, my tone was a bit snide, but Sephiroth could be so _frustrating_ to deal with sometimes. He could make me feel as though I were offering an expensive steak to a chocobo, or something equally asinine. 

"Should it?" And there it was—the blank expression of perfect incomprehension that his usual stoicism failed to hide, the one that made me fume as I wondered how someone could fail to understand something so _basic_. 

"An interest in fashion is one of the elements in common stereotypes surrounding gay men," Vincent said before I could reply with something snippy. "However, I suggest you just consider this an excuse to stop trying to read Zack's reports before his inability to spell 'bandersnatch' causes you to blow the side out of the building." 

"The problem is less that he can't spell the word than that he thinks the plural is 'bandersnitchi'," Sephiroth murmured, but he also followed us into the elevator. 

"It makes one wonder what, exactly, Angeal was teaching him," I said. 

"Fighting, apparently." Sephiroth took the question at face value, as he so often did. "He is, after all, the best we have who is neither an experiment nor an Immortalis." 

I sneered, although I didn't say anything. After all, Zack had slain Angeal and beaten me, although I hadn't been at my best at the time. If I brought that up, though, it would just seem like sour grapes. 

"I never did ask how much money you have available to spend," I said as the elevator stopped at ground level. "Not that I'm about to escort you to any _thrift_ stores, you understand, but I can select more economical options for some things if necessary." 

Vincent shrugged. "There are rules about back-pay if a Turk goes missing and then turns up alive. I can probably afford anything you can." 

"Ah." I would just take him to what I considered the most suitable places, then. What colours would look good on him? Pale skin, black hair, and red eyes weren't a common combination, and this was the first time I had seen him in anything but black. Dark reds might be interesting, but for the most part, I should probably have him go either very dramatic or very neutral. If all he had was the uniforms and the odd loan from one Turk or another, he would need a full range of clothes, from casual to formal. 

As we got into the chauffeured car that had pulled up not far from the doors, I made a mental note about one place we absolutely _had_ to visit. Vincent would look absolutely _stunning_ in full Wutainese formal robes, and he had enough connections to their court that he might even need them someday. If seeing him dressed that way didn't make Sephiroth understand the purpose of watching his boyfriend try on clothes, nothing would. But I intended to make that the _last_ stop. 

Ryersen's Casual Wear was one of the oldest stores of its kind in Midgar, having moved up onto the Plate from one of the pre-municipal-amalgamation villages whose names had been forgotten long since. It was housed in a long, low building located in a small business district in Sector Five, and it had survived so very long by selling quality goods. To my knowledge, there was not a thread of _polyester_ on the premises, although some garments sold might contain artificial fibers if they offered advantages that went beyond being cheaper than natural cloth. Even Angeal had agreed with me that their T-shirts and such were worth the prices they charged for them. And the staff were used to SOLDIERs First Class dropping in for the occasional visit, so with a little luck, no one would faint. 

I had not, however, taken into account the _other_ phenomenon that was so prone to occur when Sephiroth came into contact with random civilians, because he so seldom allowed that to happen. And that was multiple camera flashes going off in our faces. I cursed and shielded my eyes, but Sephiroth's reaction was a little more aggressive. He released a Blind spell, then ducked between some shelves, pulling Vincent and I with him, and glanced around quickly to make sure we were out of sight before casting a mass Esuna. It took him all of ten seconds, the moves smoothly connected. 

"I certainly hope those weren't members of _my_ fanclubs," I said with a sniff. 

"According to Zack, your fanclubs barely exist anymore," Sephiroth said. 

I waved that away. "What would the Puppy know about my fanclubs?" 

"He's a member," Sephiroth said dryly. "Of _all_ our fanclubs, apparently. He takes great delight in telling me about the latest pieces of nonsense from the Silver Elite. You weren't aware?" 

I hadn't been, although it didn't surprise me all that much. Zack had probably joined them before Angeal had even taken him on—the main clubs, anyway. I doubted he'd bothered with Study Group, since it was a scholarly circle rather than a gossip club. 

"I've had little attention to spare for such things lately," I said. "Now, shall we be getting back to the reason we came here in the first place?" 

The problem with trying to buy clothes for Vincent Valentine, I soon discovered, was that the man was roughly as tall as Sephiroth, but beyond slender and bordering on emaciated, just whipcord over bone. It made it difficult to find anything that would actually _fit_ him. Not such a problem for something like T-shirts that could be worn loose, but for more fitted clothing, like jeans, he had to try on several different types before he found something acceptable. But slowly, he accumulated jeans, khakis, a stack of T-shirts, two sweaters, and some . . . flannel shirts, although the very concept of those pained me. At least for those, he chose the more subdued prints, and not violent red and green checks. Everything else was in bland colours—white, black, grey, blue-grey. About a week's worth of clothing in all, most of it utterly unremarkable. Except for the (shudder) flannel. 

He didn't blink when the total was enough to buy an elemental materia, either, just paid and arranged to have everything sent to his apartment rather than crowding it into the car (another advantage of shopping at Midgar's better stores: they would deliver within the city, if one flashed a sufficiently impressive Shinra ID in the direction of the sales clerk). 

When we realized just how many people were waiting outside, we also asked the staff to permit us to exit through the back . . . or Vincent asked. I had no qualms about appearing in public, and Sephiroth would never admit to being worried about a crowd of non-hostile civilians. The Turk, however, seemed more than willing to go out of his way to accommodate his lover's unspoken preference for avoiding crowds. Or perhaps he shared it. 

It wasn't the worst alley I had ever been in. Far from it, given the number of utterly _filthy_ places hunting missions below the Plate had sometimes taken me to. It took us a while to find an exit that wasn't clogged with slavering fans, however. In the end, we came out at the far end of the block. 

"I didn't think it would be quite this bad," Vincent said as we waited for our car to find us, glancing at Sephiroth. "If I'd known, I would have borrowed one or two of the junior Turks to run interference." 

I rolled my eyes. "It's because this fool won't _engage_ with his fans. It leaves them hungry for the least scrap of his presence. Flash mobs are regrettably common. I hope _you_ will be more sensible in dealing with your fanclub." 

Vincent blinked. "I don't—" Then he stopped in mid-sentence and reconsidered. "I never considered that I might have . . . fans. It isn't a usual thing for a Turk, and I haven't been in SOLDIER that long." 

Well, at least he remembered that he _was_ a SOLDIER now. "The Puppy says your fanclub—'Darkest Knight' or some such nonsense—is already bigger than his. They're not yet as large or as organized as the Silver Elite, fortunately, or the flash mobs would be double the size." 

The car arrived just then. I took the front seat, leaving the back for the lovebirds, and gave the next address to the chauffeur. 

"And how does one deal sensibly with a fanclub?" Vincent asked seriously from behind me. 

I smirked. It was nice for my skill at _something_ to be recognized, even if it was something so trivial. "Make cautious contact with a few of the ringleaders and suggest activities to them—they needn't be anything that brings them into proximity to you as long as they feel they're creating some kind of connection. Angeal used to have the Keepers of Honour volunteer for charity, for instance. Or you could suggest a hobby that you have and they might take up." Assuming he _had_ a hobby that was separate from his work. Unlike Sephiroth, whose life had always centered around fighting. 

Sure enough, there was a sound from behind me that couldn't _quite_ be called a sigh, but was similar in the emotions it evoked. "I was thinking not all that long ago that I'm rather hobby-deficient," Vincent admitted. 

I rolled my eyes. "You must surely have had one as a child." 

"Shooting, and collecting guns. Which is no longer a hobby where I'm concerned." 

"Nothing else at all?" I sighed theatrically before he could answer. "Goddess, please tell me how I managed to end up trapped in a car with the two most _frustrating_ people I have ever met. Take up raising tropical fish or stage magic or pottery or something." 

"How is 'stage magic' different from other types of magic?" Sephiroth asked. 

"Because it isn't magic at all," I said, punctuating the remark with another eye roll. 

"'Stage magic' is a class of illusions performed without the use of materia or spells, usually for entertainment," Vincent explained—better him than me. I'd gotten tired of trying to fill in the gaps in Sephiroth's general knowledge a long time ago. I mean, there were so _many_ of them. "Making objects or creatures seem to vanish or appear under circumstances where that shouldn't be possible, pretending convincingly to stab people or saw them in half without actually injuring them, and levitating things without the use of a Float materia are among the more common types. The illusions make use of trick props, fine wires, mirrors, trapdoors, and misdirection, among other things." 

I could imagine the expression on Sephiroth's face just then—the thoughtful frown as he processed what he had just been told, and tried to figure out why people would find such things entertaining. Vincent had gone silent now as well. Thinking, possibly. Or brooding. I hadn't figured out how to separate the two in him yet . . . assuming that they were separable. He was probably as broody as a chocobo hen—from the first moment I'd seen him, I'd thought he looked like that type. 

At any rate, there were no flash mobs outside the next store _yet_. The sign read _Evans and Son_, and then, in smaller print, _Fine Tailoring_. As we disembarked from the car, I saw Sephiroth examine the storefront, then raise an eyebrow in Vincent's direction. The ex-Turk shrugged slightly. 

"Sooner or later, I expect we'll end up in some circumstance where it's expedient for me to crash a party or a business meeting wearing something that isn't a uniform," he said, examining the expensive suits arrayed on the mannequins in the window. "The lapels all look ridiculously narrow, but I suppose that's the style now," he added to me, and I nodded. He caught on quickly. 

"Everything here is made-to-measure, so you shouldn't have any more problems with fit," I said. It was also where Rufus Shinra bought his suits, but I doubted Vincent would consider that much of a positive. "The items on display are just samples. The attitude of the sales staff sometimes leaves something to be desired if they don't recognize you, however." 

"I think I can manage," the ex-Turk said. He let out a slow breath, then squared his shoulders and did . . . something . . . with his body language. Suddenly, he had an aura that reminded me of some of Rufus' hangers-on, a kind of untried arrogance that one mostly found in the children of the rich. Well, Turks _did_ do quite a bit of undercover work. It wouldn't surprise me to learn they were trained for that kind of impersonation. "Let's go." 

I almost huffed a laugh as I realized he was making Sephiroth and I look like bodyguards, even though he was likely the only one carrying a weapon. Sephiroth, on the other hand, was watching his lover as though he had never seen him before, with little sidelong glances, as though he was afraid of betraying his interest. Which he likely was, come to think of it. Things or people he was interested in had tended to disappear when Hojo had still been around, whispering poison into the ear of old President Shinra. 

Knowing Sephiroth, he would retain that stupid reflex for the rest of his life, unless someone jolted him out of it. Alas, I knew he wouldn't accept my intervention. Perhaps Vincent, who knew Hojo just as well as his lover, would have some luck where I wouldn't. 

As Sephiroth pushed open the door to the shop, it occurred to me to wonder just how good a friend I had really been to the silver-haired man. That he held me in high regard was certain, but how much of that was because so few others made any attempt to reach out to him at all? Fleeing Shinra without telling him hadn't been the . . . kindest . . . thing I had ever done. No wonder he had been so angry in Nibelheim. No wonder . . . 

I sighed inwardly. There had been a time when I hadn't been plagued with self-doubt. And then I'd found out I was a monster, and everything had changed. I'd systematically done more evil than one man should be able to in a lifetime because the damage to my nervous system had made it so difficult to _think_. 

. . . No, if I were honest, that was only part of it. The other problem was that I had been an arrogant little prick who had believed the world revolved around him. Angeal had used to lecture me _all the time_ about the difference between pride and arrogance. I'd always tuned him out. Now I wished I had listened more closely. It had taken Sephiroth and Vincent force-feeding me the truth as one of them knelt to me amid dust and rubble while the other held a gun to my head for me to come to my senses. They hadn't said it in words, of course. I don't think I would have, _could_ have listened to those kind of words at that point. But Sephiroth's refusal to give up on me, his willingness to humble himself to save me, had shamed me as nothing else ever had. 

I suppose I'd _matured_. What a horrible thought, when I'd intended to remain youthful my entire life. Mature people were so _boring_, always worrying about jobs and mortgages and how to please their girlfriends or wives. 

. . . Never mind that I didn't have a girlfriend at the moment. Even with my reputation somewhat tattered, I could certainly do better in a romantic partner than a stoic, scarred-up ex-_Turk_. 

The inside of the store was quiet, except for soft classical music being piped in from somewhere. A string quartet, although the specific composer was unfamiliar to me. 

The person who approached us had to be the shop's proprietor, who was likely the same age as Vincent, and—unlike our companion—looked it, with a bald spot on top that he couldn't conceal no matter how impeccably he groomed his grey hair. His suit was likewise impeccable, with the triangle of peach-coloured handkerchief poking out of the pocket perfectly matched with the tie. He examined the three of us with his eyebrows raised. 

"General Sephiroth, a pleasure to meet you, sir. Colonel Rhapsodos, it's been quite a long time. And . . . ?" 

"Vincent Valentine," the ex-Turk provided. 

The store owner blinked slowly. "Pardon me, but . . . I had another Valentine, a man named Grimoire, as a client a rather long time ago, and there is . . . a certain resemblance . . ." 

"I wasn't aware that my father patronized this establishment. We were not close." 

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow as the store owner murmured an apology. "I didn't know the Valentines were that wealthy." 

Vincent shrugged. "Some ancestor of mine married into a piece of land in Costa del Sol a few centuries ago. It's now downtown and on the waterfront. The rent money was enough to support one small family in lavish style, although my father put most of it into his expeditions instead." 

"Old money, rather than _nouveau riche_ like the Shinras," I worked out aloud. _Or a merely well-off family like the Rhapsodoses . . . were._ "Do you have a castle, then?" 

"Supposedly, we did. The foundations are under the marshes south of Kalm somewhere. There was a manor on the outskirts of Costa, as well, where the family's been living since the castle stopped being an option. I have no idea who owns any of it now." 

That brought about a silence into which the store owner deftly inserted, "And so, what may I do for you gentlemen?" 

"I need business and evening attire," Vincent said. "Also a coat and a riding jacket, if that is within your capabilities." 

"Of course, sir. Let me take your measurements first, and then we can discuss matters of style and fit . . ." He led Vincent off behind a curtain. 

I turned to Sephiroth and smirked. "So, how does it feel to discover you've married into the nobility?" 

Sephiroth breathed a near-silent sigh. "Why must you always exaggerate? And . . . we aren't private here." 

"If I didn't exaggerate, you wouldn't squirm at all. You aren't ashamed of him, are you?" 

Green eyes suddenly . . . hit me. Sephiroth could do that, turn his gaze into something with the force of a physical blow. "What Vincent and I have is . . . deeply personal. While I don't expect to keep it entirely out of the news, since I have never been given any choice about that, I would _prefer_ not to discuss it in a place where the Silver Elite can eavesdrop. But no, I am not ashamed of him, or of our relationship. Any more than I am _ashamed_ of my friendship with you, although there are no doubt those who think I should be." 

I winced. That was the other thing about Sephiroth: the facets of human interaction that he _did_ understand tended to be the ones that facilitated flaying people with his tongue. He didn't have to come right out and use the word _traitor_ in order to slap me across the face with it, damn him. 

"_Dreams of the morrow hath the shattered soul,_" I murmured, and the quote steadied my nerves. "This shop serves a great number of wealthy and influential people. They wouldn't be able to keep those commissions if the staff didn't know how to be discreet." 

"However, the building isn't soundproof, and I doubt it's swept regularly for bugs," Sephiroth said. 

"You are so hopelessly paranoid that I don't see how Vincent could tolerate it if he hadn't been a Turk." 

Sephiroth's gaze now held a complicated mixture of envy and contempt I had seen in him frequently during the early days of our friendship. That one, I had worked out long since. It went back to his horrible childhood in the labs, the torture and complete lack of privacy that he never talked about, but 'Geal and I had pieced together. Contempt for someone who couldn't see the danger; envy of someone who hadn't been punished for not seeing it. 

Then Vincent stepped back out from behind the curtain with his left hand at the nape of his neck, pulling his long hair out of his collar, and Sephiroth's attention left me immediately. If that didn't prove that he was madly in love, I wasn't sure what would. 

We spent some time discussing colours, cuts, and fabrics—the tailor said, and Vincent agreed, that he needed at least one summer-weight suit, but pale linen against that pale skin looked positively _ghostly_. Eventually something in medium grey that would serve was produced from the back room, and we went on to arguing about the cut of riding jackets (which in this context meant _chocobo_ riding jackets, and I had no idea why he wanted one of those), with Vincent insisting on something much shorter than was the current fashion. 

"_Why_ are you being so _difficult_?" I snarled at him after a couple of rounds back-and-forth on that topic. 

"Cerberus is too bulky for anything but a belt or thigh holster," came the flat response. "Riding jackets are normally worn closed. Having to carry a smaller gun for specific purposes in the city is one thing, but not while I'm outside it and have to deal with wandering monsters." 

"Perhaps a slit for access . . ." the tailor offered. 

Vincent shook his head. "We tried that, back when I first got the gun. Either it gets caught on the edges, or the slit ends up being more than a foot long. The jacket has to be short enough to stay clear of my thigh, and the coat will have to be rather like the General's in design, with the lower part loose enough that I can reach under it easily. Access to my main weapon isn't negotiable." 

_His and his black dusters? Oh, dear . . ._ But there really wasn't much I could say. Vincent, like Sephiroth, had a great fondness for black, it seemed . . . and like Sephiroth, the dramatic contrast suited him. It was why the tailor had agreed to deviate from the traditional navy blue blazer when we'd been discussing more informal attire. Navy wasn't really Vincent's colour. 

The tailor promised to have everything shipped to Vincent's apartment in the Tower, the ex-Turk made a downpayment, and we were off again. This time, we didn't have far to go, although we still used the car, with its tinted windows, to lessen the chance of a rabid troop of Silver Elite descending upon us. 

"How much more of . . . this . . . will there be?" Sephiroth asked abruptly as the car pulled away from the curb again. 

"Two more stops," I said airily. If Sephiroth had been a more expressive man, I think he might have groaned like a bored child when I said that. "We have to buy a tie or three, and, well, we really _do_ have to regularize your glove situation, Vincent." Currently, he was wearing a full glove on his left hand and a fingerless one on his right. One was leather, the other fabric, in slightly different shades of black—in other words they did not match in the _least_. I did have some understanding of why he wore them, or at least I had briefly seen his left hand uncovered and witnessed Hojo's dubious repair job, but while it might not matter what he chose to wear with his uniform, he needed at least one pair of _matching_ gloves. He couldn't even borrow Sephiroth's if he wanted a proper fit, because the latter's hands were both wider and longer than his. 

We did manage to find him some that he considered acceptable, butter-soft black (naturally) leather with short cuffs, skin-tight and flexible, so that they didn't bind his trigger finger. They cost less than what I paid for _my_ gloves, but then I always had to have them custom-dyed. Perhaps there were advantages to having a preference for black after all. Sephiroth stood in the corner of the small shop like a marble and obsidian gargoyle while Vincent selected three ties (all tastefully boring: plain dark red, black-on-grey pinstripe, red-on-grey pinstripe) and one handkerchief to add to his purchases. That package we took with us instead of having delivered, since it wasn't very large. 

Vincent raised an eyebrow when I gave the driver the address of our final stop, no doubt wondering what we still had left to buy, but he said nothing. Another way in which he resembled his lover, or perhaps it was a Turk thing. I had often suspected that Rude could give entire reports by adjusting his sunglasses according to a pre-determined code. 

In any case, since neither of them protested, we drove on until we pulled up in front of a shop whose facade displayed a decidedly Wutainese aesthetic sensibility. And Wutainese text, which I couldn't read even though I spoke the language to some extent. Vincent clearly could, because I saw him scan it and shake his head slightly. Sephiroth could as well, I knew, but he didn't have the same reaction. 

"Something odd?" I smirked as I drawled the words in the ex-Turk's direction. 

"There's an embedded secondary message in the sign text that's visible only to people aware of certain facets of Wutainese history and culture. In Wutai, before the war, it would have been grounds for arrest if anyone from the government ever figured it out." 

"They would have been arrested for a _shop sign_?" Midgar might not be the most wonderful place in the world, but at least I had never heard of Shinra doing anything like _that_. 

Vincent shrugged. "A shop sign showing Xienese independence propaganda, yes. Outsiders tend to view Wutai as a monolith, but it isn't—it's several separate nations that were united by conquest, and they all tend to look at each other sidelong. Although at present, I expect they're too busy dealing with having been conquered by Shinra to have time for internal dissent." 

"Rather like a family whose members squabble between themselves, but present a united front to outsiders," I said, and the ex-Turk nodded. "We can skip this shop if you like, but I thought—" 

Vincent was shaking his head. "No, we'll go in. I might not buy anything for myself, but I need a gift for someone, and if their goods are authentic, they may have something appropriate." 

_A gift for whom?_ I wondered as I got out of the car. If I had known Vincent a little better, I might have asked him outright, but right now I didn't quite dare. The recipient couldn't be Sephiroth, since Vincent had spoken right in front of him, but the only other person I could think of that Vincent knew who would recognize an authentic Wutainese anything but didn't _live_ in Wutai was Tseng, and I didn't think they were so close that Vincent would be giving him expensive gifts. Of course, it was possible that there was something about Veld that I didn't know, or that Vincent had made his continued existence known to another veteran Shinra staffer or two with whom he'd been previously acquainted. He couldn't have many outside ties left after his long hiatus . . . although Zack had once mentioned something about a sister that had come to Midgar to see our ex-Turk. _Hmmm_. 

As we entered the building, a young woman in a traditional kimono, who had been waiting by the doors, bowed to us and said, "Please be welcome to our humble establishment, honoured customers. If you require assistance, you have but to ask." Her appearance was pure Wutainese, but her accent was just as purely Midgarian—she had to have been born here, of expatriate parents. 

"Of course," I said easily, although I was watching my companions look around. The largest part of the shop was devoted to clothing, but there was also an area with jewelry on display, and an alcove at the back where tea and items pertaining to it were sold. 

Vincent moved through the aisles like a ghost at first. He examined some jewelry for several moments, but in the end he moved on. He ended up at the tea alcove, which was manned by an older woman, who, like the greeter, was in impeccable Wutainese dress, but her grasp of Common wasn't nearly as good. She seemed relieved when Vincent addressed her in Wutainese. I eavesdropped shamelessly, but although I could hear what they were saying, they were both speaking with broad, drawling, south Wutainese accents that made their conversation difficult to follow. I picked up the polite word for giving a gift, and something about an "honoured elder", and a lot of very specific words about tea whose exact meanings I was uncertain of. I made a mental note to study that vocabulary. It wouldn't do to appear ignorant in front of my new . . . brother-in-law. 

Vincent Valentine was proving to be an oddly interesting person. 

I wandered idly through the clothing aisles when I got tired of trying to listen to tea talk, and stopped at the back where a mannequin displayed a robe fit for a king, heavy silk embroidered in gold and silver with twining dragons. The silk itself was the same startling mako green as Sephiroth's eyes, and I wondered how they had gotten that colour. You _could_ get a similar shade with common chemical dyes, but it never had the full intensity and shimmer of the Planet's lifeblood. 

"It's true Xien green," said a soft voice—one of the shopgirls was standing in the mouth of a nearby aisle. "Once, it was the privilege of emperors alone to wear cloth of that colour. Now my grandfather is the last person who remembers how to make it, and he refuses to teach me or my sisters. When he dies, the knowledge will be lost to time." 

"It's beautiful," I said, stepping closer to examine it. "A shame it isn't my colour, but I look terrible in green." Pasty, ill, and on the verge of being undead, to be exact. Vincent wouldn't look much better. Sephiroth . . . had such an unusual complexion that it was difficult to tell without actually having him try it on. "Did you and your sisters do the embroidery?" 

"My grandmother planned the motif and did much of the work, but we did assist with the details," the girl said, with a smile. "I believe your friend is done at the tea counter." 

And sure enough, there was Vincent, coming toward us, with Sephiroth following along behind. I glanced from the latter to the elegant green robe, and back again. It really was the exact colour of his eyes. 

"You should try it on," I said, jerking my head in the direction of the garment. 

"We would be honoured, of course," the girl said, bowing. 

Sephiroth drew in a breath to say something, then stopped as Vincent laid a hand on his arm. They had a brief conversation in coded glances and near-invisible facial expressions. Then Sephiroth bowed his head slightly and reached for the strap that held his right pauldron in place. A few moments later, he was handing off his armour and long coat and even his gloves to Vincent. As usual, his upper body was bare underneath, all pale, perfect skin and hard muscles. It was enough to give a man an inferiority complex. There were plenty of SOLDIERs bigger than I was, but none of the others were as physically flawless as Sephiroth. 

It was one of the reasons I had always so desired to put him in his place. Not the only one, mind, but a significant one nonetheless. I'd wanted to leave a mark on that perfect skin, something to make him remember me for the rest of his life. And all I'd ended up with was a scarred shoulder. 

The shopgirl had carefully disentangled the robe from the mannequin, and was now holding it out for Sephiroth to slip into. Somehow, he managed to get his arms into the sleeves and draw the robe over his shoulders without ever touching her directly. He twitched it straight; she smoothed and arranged. And . . . 

Green clothes, perhaps _any_ coloured clothes, gave Sephiroth's skin a hint of a silvery sheen. Dressed like that, he was regal and otherworldly and I wanted to either punch him in the jaw or pounce on him and molest him—and despite a few experiments as a desperate adolescent deployed in Wutai, I am normally not at _all_ interested in men. 

"Oh my," the shopgirl whispered. 

Vincent didn't say a word, but he stared at his lover with a heated gaze, and I caught the faint, musky scent of arousal. Sephiroth had to know as well, since his senses were even more acute than mine. Sure enough, I saw his nostrils flare, his pupils dilate until they were almost round. 

I smirked. "So, are you going to buy it?" _And role-play Wutainese emperor and vassal in private, no doubt,_ the snide part of me provided. 

Sephiroth inclined his head. "I am," he said. 

Which, I reflected as he put his own clothes back on and the salesgirl folded the robe, meant we had accomplished both the original and the bonus mission that had inspired this little jaunt. That would be why Vincent was almost smiling underneath that Turk-trained poker face of his. _She guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting._

Then my PHS trilled from my pocket, and I pulled it out to discover that I now had a mission to take care of a monster outbreak south of Kalm. I would be lucky to be back in Midgar before the early hours of the morning, no doubt all muddy and sweaty and stinking of the swamp that Vincent Valentine's ancestral castle was hidden under. 

But that, alas, was how SOLDIER worked.

**Author's Note:**

> More to come on Thurs. or Fri. In the meanwhile, I'll leave you with the disturbing image of Veld dressed in white polyester and grooving to the Bee Gees. ;)


End file.
